


Neighborly

by FadedSepia



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Platonic Winter Castle, Rambling, and they were neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 03:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: They meet for the first time on the landing, just inside the door. He’s heading out for the night, sun long set on the abandoned building, just as the kid comes in. Little guy pulls up his cowl, pulls down his hat, and he’s gone, up the stairs before Frank can even process that someone else is living in his squat. He’d swept it regular-like; guy must be new. Kid shouldn’t be a problem. Probably just a run away. He’d move on. If he doesn’t, then maybe he’ll be Frank’s problem. Maybe.





	Neighborly

They meet for the first time on the landing, just inside the door. He’s heading out for the night, sun long set on the abandoned building, just as the kid comes in. Little guy pulls up his cowl, pulls down his hat, and he’s gone, up the stairs before Frank can even process that someone else is living in his squat. He’d swept it regular-like; guy must be new. Kid shouldn’t be a problem. Probably just a runaway. He’ll move on. If he doesn’t, then maybe he’ll be Frank’s problem. Maybe.

~§~§~

If Frank had had, or wanted, a neighbor, he might have picked someone like Mr. Upstairs. He has a good setup going. Not quite to Frank’s taste - little guy seems more for hiding than fighting - but he has a hunch kid is just biding his time. Like his fight is coming.

Guy moves like he’s stalking death, walking his way to a fight with each step. Frank knows he has that, too, moves that way, but he wants to get there; he itches for that fight. This guy, though? This guy’s walk is the definition of inexorable. He doesn’t want the fight, but he’s going. He goes like the fight is all he’s had for a while, leaves Frank wondering just how long he’s been at it. That look takes work, time, that a kid shouldn’t have had, yet.

‘Course, he isn’t a kid, not really, but he has a fresh face, all big sad eyes with hair falling in ‘em, even if he is getting scruffy around the edges. Reminds Frank too much of the guys he’d known before. They’d cased each other’s flats – a body knew when someone had been in his space – kept their routines, stayed outta each other’s way. If he hadn’t passed the little guy in the stairwell, him going up and Frank going down, seen him shoulder a yoga bag that sure as shit didn’t hold no mat, seen him tug his jacket to drape outta the way of a holster or three, he might not have even thought of him when the shot came. One single, impossible shot.

He’s blocks over, scraping off the last of a fight, when the last man goes down like a bag of wet paper just behind him. No report, just a quiet crumple, the slow line of pink and red dripping down the corpse’s forehead in a viscous stream.

Frank ducks, scans, waits: Nothing. Nobody down here with him.

On the roof – his roof – a light. Not even a real one, just the flash of a mirror, then it’s gone. Frank knows he should bug out then, but he has to know.

~§~§~

When he gets back, there it is: single casing, set upright on the ratty mat outside his door, and a peanut butter sandwich on a plate.

That’s why he’s had to come up here. Can’t keep the guy’s plate, isn’t neighborly. Bad luck to take it back empty – Maria’d have had a fit – though he doesn’t have much. Chocolate bar, maybe? Some kid sellin ’em for charity, and he’d picked one up. Frank drops it onto the plate. Good enough. Course, he leaves the sandwich. Who knows what Mr. Upstairs has put in it?

When he knocks, the door opens easily. Like he’s expected. Little guy’s on the other side, and Frank realizes this is the first time he’s seen his neighbor without that stupid hat. He was wrong about the eyes; they look even sadder with his hair pulled half back. Somehow even younger, more out of place now that he can see the guy’s face, know for sure that he’s not any kind of kid, hasn’t been for a long while.

Frank shrugs, lifting the plate as a reason. “Thanks, but I always told my kids not to take food from strangers, so…”

“James.” Hand extended, little guy shrugs, tilts his head, but doesn’t quite nod. “Nice ta meet ya, Frank.”

His hand stills, inches away as his neighbor keeps those sad eyes locked on his face. Cats in an alley; that’s what this is. James tips his head the other way, and Frank can see the radio on the counter behind him. “Heard about you on the wireless.”

“Can’t say the same, James.”

“Guys like us only make the news if we wanna.” James reaches out, grabs the sandwich, takes a bite. He puts it back on the plate, eyes daring Frank not to eat it now. Frank doesn’t take the bait, even if he really feels like this guy mighta killed him already, if he wanted. Mighta tried, at least.

He only nods. “An’ you don’t.” It ain’t a question.

“Maybe I do, but they’re not lookin’ for me.”

James steps back, turns in to his apartment – he’s too open, too calm for this – and meanders back to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ else?”

“Coffee?” Frank settles into one of the mismatched pair of battered chairs flanking the dining table. James – who doesn’t really feel like he oughtta be a _James_ – keeps his place homier than necessary. Kitchen towels, a few knick-knacks; like he’s trying to build a kind of home inside the squat. Not a nice one; reminds him of the bachelor place he’d kept before he and Maria got together.

James nods, lighting a sterno can under an old camp-percolator. He crosses his arms, leans back onto the counter. “You’re local?”

“Queens. You?”

“Brooklyn, while back.”

They lapse into silence as the little pot boils. Frank watches as his upstairs neighbor – still weird to have one of those – pours two cups, digs a few packets out of a drawer, and dumps them and two spoons on the table. James settles into the other chair, grabbing two sugars for his own cup.

The coffee fills the quiet between them for a while, at least until Frank can admit that James’ nonchalance is bothering him. “Don’t wanna owe you.”

“Ya don’t.” The younger man shrugs, tipping his mug to Frank. “Been a while. Needed the practice.”

“Doubt that. Can’t be too long.”

“Some stuff is hard to forget, harder to remember.”

“Yeah.” He gets that. James ain’t getting in his way, at least. Ain’t asking questions, either. Frank can give him that courtesy. Guy wants to help him out, he’s not gonna stop it.

James stands to refill his own cup. He offers the pot, brow quirking by way of a question.

“Nah. I’m good.” Frank skulls his own mug, steps up into the shorter man’s space, and sets it in to the sink. Interesting, how James doesn’t even twitch; most people would just from Frank’s size on its own. Impressive. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

He doesn’t quite turn his back as he leaves. Something about the guy is too trustworthy, for people like them, at least. Frank grabs the sandwich from the table as he goes. “See ya ’round, James.”

“Frank.”

~§~§~

Frank wonders what’s riding James. Gotta be something. Guy’s always dressed like it’s fucking freezing out, long sleeves, two or three jackets, stupid hat, gloves all the damn time. James fucking cooks in gloves. Track marks, maybe? Maybe not his choice. Scars or something. Frank can’t blame him either way; he’s got no right to judge. Maybe that’s why the whole apartment’s dry. Guys like them usually have something, but not James. Coffee, water, enough food to last a day or two, tops. No booze, no smokes, nothing.

He moves like he’s on something, though, up close. Frank hadn’t planned on seeing it, is pretty sure James didn’t ever want him to, either. Maybe the guy can smell street fights going bad. Frank certainly hadn’t expected anyone to come out of evening at his back. Definitely hadn’t been ready to see him to throw a punch that could cave in a face like that and keep going.

It was a stupid fight, bad odds and worse luck, but he isn’t exactly happy to have James hauling his ass around the corner, busting the side lock to get him into their building. He dumps Frank at the door to his apartment, tipping his head as he pulls down his cowl. “You got it from here.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s bearing heavily on his door, but he unlocks it, stepping in, headed for his med kit. “Why?”

James stays in the doorway, leaning into the frame. “Like I said, out of practice.”

“Bullshit.”

“They track you, they could find me.” He slips the hat off, fingers pushing his hair out of the way before the cap resettles. Rolls his eyes as he answers. “I’m not you, Frank. Don’t want to be found.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t think even you want that kind of heat. Maybe just trust I need to practice?” He shakes his head, tongue clicking, and shoves both hands into his pockets.

“Fuck that.” Sense would tell him James is probably right. He has work he needs to get done, and little enough time to go chasin’ after other people’s problems. “I’m mean it. Ain’t gonna owe you.”

James smiles, just a little, like his face ain’t done in a while, like his mouth don’t quite remember how. Like he’s scared of what’ll come past his lips if he opens ’em too far. “Just don’t bleed on your way in next time.”

Frank can barely hear him on the stairs. He’s pretty sure James is making noise so that he knows the other man is gone. It’s oddly comforting.

~§~§~

They’re just inside the doorway, passing on the landing, the last time Frank sees James. He’s got a rucksack on his shoulder, looks to be wearing every coat he owns. The scruff is almost a beard now, and both hands are in his pockets. If he’s going for street guy, he’s doing a good job of it. Frank’s almost gonna miss him. “Headin’ out?”

“Movin’ on.”

“See ya ’round, kid.” He doesn’t like to touch many people, but, the way Frank sees it, James has earned this handshake.

His grasp is solid, quick around Frank’s wrist. His big blue eyes are hinting at something, maybe funny, maybe tragic. “Kid? How old you think I am, punk?”

“Young enough to do somethin’ real stupid.”

This whole time, Frank ain’t never seen James smile for real, now he knows why. Guy’s face cracks like a window, little bits shattering off, falling in a shower for him to see what’s behind it. That’s the guy that punched a man’s face in with one hit. That’s the guy that made the impossible shot. The real one, hiding behind the James face he’s been wearing this whole time. That’s the face that comes out when his cowl is up, when he leans into the walk.

There’s death in that face, those eyes, the kind that says James has dropped a hundred guys like Frank and started losing count. Frank wonders why he didn’t see it before. Wonders if James was trying to be neighborly.

James laughs, full and deep, brushing the edge of mania. “Yeah, sure. Be seein’ ya, Frank.” Little guy pulls up his cowl, pulls down his hat, and he’s gone, out the door and down the stairs before Frank can blink, chasing his own fight.


End file.
